Beloved Warrior (24 page)

“Number One,” MacDonald said, “you strike the first blow.”

Number One.
He closed his eyes. He heard the sound of the hammer beating out the strokes, the whistle of the whip just before it struck skin. He even heard the groans and cries of dead men.

He lifted the ax and struck with as much might as he had in his body. It pierced the decking but did not break through. Then Denny struck and then MacDonald.

Each stroke was liberating. Six. Nine. Twelve. Then a hole appeared and water seeped in. MacDonald grabbed the lantern and they climbed up to the main deck.

Patrick gathered gunpowder from the cannons and spread it about the ship, then cut portions of the sheets to feed the flames. He ordered the MacDonald and Denny into the boat. “You go, too, Rory,” he said.

Rory hesitated.

“Go,” Patrick commanded.

Rory reluctantly went to the side of the ship and climbed down.

Patrick took one last look and then threw the lantern down and watched the flames follow the gunpowder to the sheet. There was a whoosh of flame, and he climbed down the rope ladder and onto the boat. The four of them rowed away as the fire took hold. The entire ship became a fiery inferno, then the bow slipped into the water and the
Sofia
disappeared.

“RIDER coming.”

Rory hurried out the door of Inverleith and quickly mounted the stairs to the top of the great stone wall. He signaled to those below him to move Patrick’s oarsmen into the great hall.

Although all had worn mismatched britches and shirts on their arrival from the ship, the Macleans had tried to clothe the oarsmen in something more similar to Highland garments. Even then they looked different from the Macleans. And the Moors . . . there was no disguising their difference.

Rory looked out toward the rider. He was still some distance away, but Rory immediately recognized the white horse. He winced. Of all times for Jamie Campbell to make a visit. He was not sure Patrick was ready for that.

Thank God his older brother was out riding off his demons again. How long before he would return?

Patrick had surprised him. Rory remembered his older brother as a loner who had been focused, as he had been, on training and arms. He had been gone several years, fostered by a Highland family known for their skill in battle, and when he’d returned he had far surpassed Rory in swordsmanship and archery.

It was as if Patrick feared friendship would soften him, yet he had fought their father’s poor leadership. Their father’s lack of trust in his oldest son had driven Patrick away.

Since his return a week ago, he’d seen a different Patrick. There was still a sense of isolation, of aloneness, about him, and yet Rory noticed the bond he had with the oarsmen, an understanding that excluded Patrick’s brothers and others. He saw the gentleness with which he introduced the man called Denny, the exasperated tolerance he offered Diego and the almost paternal concern for Manuel.

He even had a way with the mostly silent and sullen Moors.

But Rory wasn’t sure that new tolerance would extend to a Campbell.

Patrick had been growling today, and Rory was pretty sure he knew why. After they scuttled the ship, his brother had gone for long rides and spent most of his time with the oarsmen. He had taken meals with them, spurning the upper table.

Only rarely did his brother allow his eyes to turn to the bonny senorita, who also tried to avoid looking at him. He knew exactly what both were feeling, because he had experienced the same madness only five years earlier.

He and Felicia had even plotted to bring them together, but thus far every effort had been foiled. His brother seemed to know exactly what he was doing, though he had said naught.

Rory knew his brother worried about both his own and Juliana Mendoza’s presence at the keep, that it might endanger the Macleans. Certainly the Scots had been weakened since Flodden and could not afford another war with either the English or French. How far would Margaret go to protect her subjects, or how far would she go to appease the English?

If
anyone learned what had really happened to the
Sofia.

The best way to avoid that was a marriage between Patrick and Juliana Mendoza. Senorita Mendoza would disappear within marriage and become a Maclean. They could create a story for her accent. She could pass as Scottish with her fair coloring and gray eyes.

He never would have suggested it if he had not seen the smoldering attraction between the two of them. It was obvious to anyone with eyes. And Rory rather fancied having still another nationality for a third Maclean bride.

After seeing the blow she had inflicted on his brother, Rory knew Juliana would fit quite well with Felicia and Kimbra. There was also a kindness about her that he admired. Juliana and Kimbra were spending time with Denny. Reading to him. Trying to get reactions from him. Trying to discover whether he had a family.

And Manuel, who more than once tried to steal some silver, obviously cared deeply for her.

The rider reached the gate.

He thought about walking down and speaking to him outside the gate, but Jamie had saved his life and Lachlan’s. Once a hated Campbell, he was now Rory’s closest friend. Rory would certainly trust him with his life or that of any of his family.

They might well need him.

He waved at the Campbell, then quickly descended the steps and waited as the massive gate opened. Jamie dismounted and grabbed him by his shoulders, his fingers tightening in a gesture of friendship. “Since when have you started to lock your gates again?” he asked, his gaze wandering about the courtyard.

“Brigands,” Rory said. It wasn’t exactly a lie.

“Did they do any damage?”

“Nay. We chased them off but they could return.”

“One of my Campbells was courting a Maclean. He saw a ship burning.”

“Must have been fog.”

Jamie’s brows blew up. “Are you nae going to invite me in for a drink after my long ride?”

That was the last thing Rory wanted to do, but he feared Jamie would not take it well if he were denied hospitality. But the hall was filled with an assortment of villains, and his brother had no fondness for Campbells.

Mayhap Jamie could help them. He’d always had the queen’s ear. Margaret was still a young woman, and Jamie, even well married, was a fine-looking lord who now was laird of the most important and influential clan in Scotland.

But that decision would have to be his brother’s.

Jamie’s gaze seemed to see right through him. “Something is odd, Rory. I am not going to leave until I find out what. If you have trouble . . . if you need more men, you can have some Campbells.”

“You came alone, though you thought we may have been invaded?”

Jamie hunched his shoulders together. “I have more Campbells not far away.”

“God in heaven,” Rory said. “That’s all I need.”

Jamie looked offended.

“Let us have that drink,” Rory said. “But avert your eyes when you go in.” He had no choice. He knew Jamie. Knew how he spent months on the English border, looking for Lachlan after Flodden Field. He did not give up.

“Avert them from what?” Jamie asked suspiciously.

“Moors. Many Moors.”

“God’s blood. You’ve been invaded by Moorish pirates?” Jamie’s hand went to the hilt of his dagger.

The only thing that could be worse was if Patrick returned to Inverleith at this moment.

PATRICK approached the great gate with both antic-ipation and reluctance. He’d never before thought the two could go together.

The ride had become a morning ritual. His time to think. And slowly come to life again. After being locked in the dark, crowded oarsmen’s deck for six years and a dungeon before that, he relished every breath of the cool air scented by heather. He had forgotten how heady it was.

The rides became longer as they all waited for the
Felicia
to arrive. Since his . . . encounter with Juliana several nights earlier, he’d made it his practice to explore the Maclean land and meet the crofters. He also went for a morning swim in a nearby loch. It was deep and freezing, and its color as blue as the evening sky.

It was the freezing he needed.

Unfortunately, the swim did not cool the lust that continued to roar through him every time he saw Juliana. And it seemed that the more he tried to avoid her, the more he saw her. She was everywhere.

She was even in Lachlan’s library reading a book to Denny last eve.

She’d looked startled when she saw him, then ducked her head as color suffused her cheeks.

God’s blood but she seemed to grow more beautiful every day.

How could that be?

He was grateful to Kimbra, who had taken swiftly to Denny. He had learned from Rory that his sister-in-law was a healer of sorts, that she had nursed Lachlan back to health. Denny had taken to her immediately, and he often saw Denny, Kimbra and Juliana huddled together in the library.

When he saw Juliana tending to Denny, he wanted her all the more.

He suspected he was not fooling Rory when he said he wanted to ride over Maclean lands and meet the families who worked it. It was Rory who suggested swims in the loch. “I know something about that,” his brother had said with amusement in his eyes.

Patrick was just now piecing together the tales of his brothers’ romantic mishaps. He could—would—be stronger than they. He could rein in his feelings.

Thus the solitary rides.

But as he rode through the gate of Inverleith, his hair still damp, he saw his brother talking to a tall stranger, one who matched his own height. The man wore a plaid that differed slightly from those worn by Macleans.

But he recognized the dyes in the plaid and the face. His stomach clenched.

The newcomer’s eyes opened wider as recognition dawned in his face.
Campbells are no longer my enemy.
His brain told him that but his instincts said something else. Instincts honed by his father for many years.

“Patrick? Patrick Maclean?”

“Aye,” he said coldly. The Campbell might be Rory’s friend and Lachlan’s. He was not his.

“Where in the devil have you been?”

Anger rose in him. Who was the Campbell to question him in his own courtyard? And what was he doing here?

“Your business?” he said sharply.

“I thought there could be danger. One of my people saw a strange ship . . .”

“There is no ship,” Rory interrupted.

“I noticed that,” the Campbell replied. “I will put my worries to rest.”

Jamie turned to Rory. “Will you not offer me a drink after a long ride?”

Patrick thought of the Moors. The others as well. Even with Scot clothing, they stood out from the others.

His gaze met Rory’s, who raised an eyebrow.

“The hall is currently crowded,” Patrick said stiffly. “I brought some men back from France to sail the ship Rory wishes to purchase.”’Twas a weak explanation but all he could devise so quickly. The devil take it, but he had depended on Inverleith’s isolation. When he was a lad, there were few, if any, visitors.

The Campbell’s gaze did not leave Patrick’s face. “I did not realize you and Rory had been in contact with each other. I was under the impression you were missing. Believed dead.”

“A captain of a Maclean ship was in Paris,” Patrick lied. “I had just arrived from a trip to the far east. There were pirates and . . .” He stopped and shrugged. “I am sure you do not have time for this.”

“Oh, but I do,” Jamie said. “I would like to hear every detail of such an adventure.”

“Later,” Patrick said curtly. “I have a horse to groom.”

“I have time,” Jamie said easily. “I want to see Cousin Felicia and the bairns.”

There was something about the way he made that announcement that riled Patrick. He suspected the Campbell was enjoying his discomfort. Patrick remembered the last time they had met during games held in Edinburgh. They were an afternoon match, and it had continued a very long time. They fought to a draw, to a point neither could rise again. It had been the first time Patrick had not won. It was said it was the first time Jamie Campbell had not won.

“Your hair is wet,” Rory observed with that damned amusement of his. “You apparently took my advice.” It was obvious he was trying to break the tension.

Blasted brother. Patrick did not reply as he turned and walked his mount toward the stable. Devil take it, but this was the last thing he needed at the moment. A Campbell.

 
JULIANA sat in the small drawing room carved out of the massive stone wall with Denny and Kimbra. The room was designated as Lachlan’s because he kept his books there.

Kimbra had taken her there shortly after her arrival. “It is Lachlan’s room,” she said proudly. “He purchases a book whenever he can find one he does not already possess.”

Juliana had haunted the sanctuary since her arrival, though there was always a Maclean at guard.

Then two days ago, Kimbra found her there and asked if she would like to help her with Denny. Patrick had explained, she said, that Denny had not said a word since he had first been brought to the
Sofia
, and they knew not where he belonged, or whether he had a family. Kimbra had helped heal Lachlan. Mayhap she could do the same with Denny.

Of the two sisters-in-law, Juliana had warmed to Kimbra first. Felicia was often busy with her children and although she was always gracious and full of life, there was something especially kind and thoughtful about Kimbra. Juliana remembered Denny from the aftermath of the revolt. He was often the silent shadow of Patrick Maclean.

“Patrick says he has not spoken, though he appears to understand English,” Kimbra said. “Patrick seems to think that I might be able to talk to him in some way, find out where he belongs. Lachlan told him I am a healer, but I am not. I just know herbs, and I do not think herbs will help Denny.”